


Why The Sofa Farts

by 105NorthTower



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Humour, Other, recaps
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-19 01:54:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29867361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/105NorthTower/pseuds/105NorthTower
Summary: I am Sofa, hear me roar.Thanks to all at Denmark Street Discord for the inspiration and to @Bettys_blend for help with the tone.
Relationships: Robin Ellacott & Cormoran Strike
Comments: 38
Kudos: 47





	1. Arrival

They brought me here in a van, two rough geezers did, and that's the first time I met that arse, Cormoran Strike.

I was heaved off the lorry plate onto the pavement and left there by a puddle of piss. It was forecast rain, which would have ruined my leathers, and the fucking pigeons were circling and threatening to land all the time. Added to which, it was brass monkeys and they're acting like they've never heard of spring condensation! Meanwhile the two geezers and The Arse have a long argument about how to "Get me up the apples."

It turns out I'm heading up the staircase from fucking hell. Up four flights, round three bends, past the foulest smelling small room you can imagine, through a doorway that's about an inch too narrow and no-one seems to know the meaning of the word "scuff". 

The two geezers have had a skinful the night before and I'm sure their breath is enough to cause colour fading, meanwhile The Arse is telling them to put their backs into it and claiming he can't help "because of a war wound".

Then the final straw: when I get there, the remains of my predecessor are in fucking bits on the floor and The Arse is trying to make out that the delivery fee includes taking the poor bastard away.

I'm already thinking of ways out of this assignment before cash has changed hands. My second cousin once extricated himself from a nightmare house with triplets and an incontinent whippet by concentrating really hard and splitting his rear stitching. I'm just giving it some mentalation as to whether I could manage similar, when in she comes.

Oh man! If Cormoran Strike has an antithesis she's just arrived. She's the yin to his yang, the day to his night, the Tuppence to his Tommy, the beauty to his beast. In she comes, the lovely Robin Ellacott, and suddenly I forget the plan and the two geezers have got their cash and have gone, leaving only me and their farewell belches which could strip paint.

Never mind, it's an honour to cushion Ms Ellacott's derriere, and she needs a protector with The Arse around: it took me ten minutes to see he's copping an eyeful as she bends over, the bastard, and her engaged and the wedding only a few weeks off!

It's a mystery why a woman like her would get herself involved with a bloke like him. One day the scales will fall from her eyes, I can tell you, and in the meantime I am letting one rip every time he sits down, just to take the edge off.


	2. The Silkworm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sofa's case report on book two.

The month started with me supporting the bottom of a middle-aged lady in some distress. Always a pleasure to assist the ladies, of course, of whatever age and appearance, but this one seemed particularly nervous and kept getting up and sitting back down again whenever the phone rang.

"Love," I said to her, "Love, there in front of you sits THE best Assistant in the whole of private detection. OK, she's assisting a total wanker, but you are in good hands at the mo, because he seems to have gone AWOL. So sit the fuck down and stop wearing out my cushions."

Of course, I didn't say that, because sofas can't talk. But I thought it, as hard as I could, hoping it would save my piped seams. I have a friend of a friend, currently in a GP waiting room in Catford, who in his youth, prevented his lady making some very bad choices by thinking hard whenever she was watching QVC. He reckons once he saved her from a pair of Christian Louboutins so hideous they would have curdled milk.

The Arse turns up late, smelling like an ashtray in a brothel, and proceeds to insult the military-looking man that Ms Ellacott has spent the last hour keeping sweet. He takes my passenger off for a bit and when she's gone, plonks himself down without a by-your-leave. Fucking hell, he's fat. I can feel the tension in my springs on maximum and my timbers are creaking. He silently lets one out and I add some sound effects, free of charge. 

Then he falls asleep while Ms Ellacott is doing all the work and starts snoring. 

The rest of the case is carried on in a similar fashion. Ms Ellacott busting a gut and The Arse being unworthy of her. I find out he's in trouble with the police and the paps, he's groping for trout with a brunette client, he's messing with gangsters and worse than all of that, he forgot her birthday, the absolute cunt.

On the very morning he ballses up the investigation so completely that the mark ends up evicerated, he has the fucking gall to eyeball Ms Ellacott like she's a pint of Sambrook's Junction after a hard day's work. What she is, is a natural, and he treats her like a secretary. 

Mind you - Ms Ellacott is not the only one whose contribution to the case is discounted. I like to think my lady and I brought home the bacon during our good cop/bad sofa interrogation of the witness Pippa Midgley. It was probably a tipping point in the case, but as usual The Arse fucks it up and lets her escape.

I can't even bear to tell you what he's got her searching bins for. 

It all worked out in the end of course, and now everyone's away for crimbo, and I'd be getting into a festive mood myself, if it wasn't for The Arse's parting shot.

An old mucker called Anstis come round to congratulate him on solving the case. Never a problem for me, making the bottoms of our boys in blue comfortable. Nice bloke, compliments my padding as he gets up, and admires my covers, as well he might.

"Oh," says The Arse, "It wasn't that expensive. It's not real leather "

I'm going to fuck him up. I'm going to be the Matilda fucking Wormwood of furniture and kill him with my fucking brain.


	3. Career of Evil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A difficult few weeks for Sofa.

I know all about not blaming the victim, but to me, the way to avoid being sent body parts through the post is to live a good, clean life, keep away from sharp objects and sticky fingers and not indulge in inappropriate relationships in the workplace. There's no hope for The Arse on any of those counts so it was no shock to see the look of horror on Ms Ellacott's face one Monday morning, when a parcel smelling like the bins at Fun Fried Chicken arrived.

The poor lady screamed so loud one my S-coils turned into a Z-coil, and that bought The Arse running. I'd like to say he was appropriately dressed for the workplace, but he looked like a gorilla caught red-handed in Top Man. He manhandled Ms Ellacott out and a few minutes later, the fuzz arrive in the form of a lady detective. 

She seems preoccupied with the leg, but I'm keeping everything crossed that she finds something else incriminating and hauls The Arse off in a panda car. I don't see either of them for a week and start to have hope, but then they're back. The Arse first, then Ms Ellacott, then for gawds sake, an ex con with a nervous tick who sprays magic dragon all over me.

Ms Ellacott waits until they're inside and rummages in her desk for her Beeswax Leather (yes, Leather) Balsam and a soft cloth. She cleans me up (and that's how you treat a leather-clad coworker, Cormoran Strike, you total butt plug). When she's finished I see that her engagement ring isn't on her finger. 

I'm worried it might have slipped off while she was waxing my corners. She doesn't seem to realise. I'm scanning all my crevices but I can't feel it anywhere.

No-one seems to mention the ring is gone. Everyone just carries on coming and going as if nothing has happened. Then I remember a nephew of mine from Hackney who went off his coasters in his youth and messed with a gang of fences. Not garden fences, you get me? Human fences. Not the fine, upstanding characters you'd want a sofa still under warranty to know. He ended up the rec room at a borstal. I think he quite likes it there, to be honest.

And I see it all, The Arse thinks he's throwing a spanner in Ms Ellacott's wedding preparations. She's removed her ring to rub me down and he's grabbed it and got it out of the office in the back pocket of his dodgy mate, who's going to sit on it until it's safe to hock it for a monkey. Well, Sofa to the rescue! 

For the next few weeks, every visitor gets the full air biscuit, while I'm thinking "Strike has taken Ms Ellacott's ring!" as much as I possibly can. Despite all this hard work, the message don't seem to get through. I try different tacks: 

"Strike has done her over proper!" 

"The Gorilla has interfered with her wedding goods!"

Nothing seems to work and if anything, the sexual tension in the office mounts.

It takes a visit from Ms Ellacott's mother to sort him out, and shortly after the ring is back on my lovely lady's hand, where it belongs.

If The Arse thinks that is the end of the story, he's sorely mistaken. Mrs Linda Ellacott and I form a bit of a bond during her visit and I tell her everything I know. She seems to me a lady you wouldn't mess with, and sure enough, a few weeks later, Strike shuffles in looking like he's done several rounds with Tyson Fury.

Ms Ellacott goes off to get spliced, which will hopefully convince The Arse he's finished and he can stop being such a frogging ashpole.

Then, disaster. Why didn't I see it coming? She's so soft-hearted.

I wasn't expecting to see Ms Ellacott until she was Mrs Cunliffe, but she pops in on the Thursday prior. The Arse has abandoned ship trying to shake off the press, who are after him again for something, so there's just me here. She's not here long, just drops something jangly and metallic in the top drawer of The Arse's desk. Sounds like a bunch of keys.

As she's reaching to turn off the light, she changes her mind and comes to sit with her old pal Sofa for a few minutes. She pats my arm gently and I see she's crying. Oh, I think, you silly girl.

You thought a Sofa's heart couldn't break?

I can't believe I'm thinking this. But I have to find a way to get her and The Arse back together.


End file.
